


Collision Course, Or: That which we call a Crash. By any other name would be just as inconvenient

by deadmalfoys (lisbethsalandrr)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 13:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6009616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisbethsalandrr/pseuds/deadmalfoys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco and Hermione seem to be on a collision course, but as always, there are a lot of things in their way!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collision Course, Or: That which we call a Crash. By any other name would be just as inconvenient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nadiaa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiaa/gifts).



> This is for the dhrfavorites secret valentine exchange! My secret valentine is @lilyyjames (Nadia) - she’s just the best guys, a major dramione blogger and actually the reason I ship dramione at all. I stumbled across a post of hers rec’ing The Fallout, and I essentially never recovered. So, thanks Nadia, <333 happy v-day.
> 
> Many thanks to my dearest friend and beta, winchestersinthedrift.

“I don’t think I can make it out tonight, Pans,” said Hermione, hunched over her desk and attempting to sound very harried and over worked.

“Come onnnn, Herm," Pansy replied, whining.

“Okay, but you know that’s not an acceptable abbreviation of my name, right?”

“I believe I can call you whatever I like, Hermy. Actually, I quite like that. Hermy. Do you object to me having that engraved? On some jewelry perhaps? A BFF necklace?”

Hermione lets out an exasperated sigh.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll come out tonight, but only for an hour. Then I really need to get back home, I have work to do.”

“Three drinks.”

“Two.”

“Two drinks and a shot?”

“Pansy, that’s three drinks. And no! ‘Write drunk edit sober’ does NOT apply in my particular field.”

“I personally feel as though applied biochemical engineering could benefit from some free, creative energy.”

“Free, creati - last I checked, muffdives and pornstars haven’t been credited with any major technical advances.”

“There’s a first time for - UGH. Okay, okay. We’ve only just got here. If you show up around 9, the mothers will have gone, and the strippers won’t be on stage for another hour after that. It’s a perfect, boring, Hermione-sized window to make an appearance.”

“I hate hen-dos.”

“Oh, nobody likes them dearest, but not showing up at all? No matter how difficult you find Lavender now, you would not survive her wrath should you not come at all. You don’t need to bring anything. We’ve done gifts already, back at her place, and I put your name on with mine - Lav says thanks for the giant dildos by the way…”

“PANSY.”

“Hush now. Would I really do that?”

“You would, you absolutely would.”

“Go tart yourself up - well, change out of your sweats and put on lipgloss? I’ll see you in an hour, Sugar Tits.”

Click.

Ok, I preferred Hermy.

“Change out of my sweats…” Hermione grumbled to herself, and then laughed out loud.

Looking at herself in the mirror, dressed head to toe in a fuzzy, soft grey jumper and matching sweatpants, Hermione had to admit that while blunt, her dear friend was rarely, if ever, wrong. Lavender would be unbearable if she didn’t show up to the hen-do tonight. Hermione would not have begrudged her ex-boyfriend’s fiancée for not inviting her to anything wedding related. But this was the sort of thing that friends do, right? Show up to events. Events that nobody wants to attend. Friendship. She could do that for an hour.

A tidy 17 minutes later, Hermione stepped out of her dormitory to fetch her bike which she’d chained in a hurry to a tree next to the faculty car park. Or rather it had been chained up. It was now nearly unrecognizable, mashed into the grill of a car which had apparently been aiming to wrap itself around the very same tree.

A thin, pointy blonde man was leaning against the car, annoyed and…well, just rather angular. He was excessively well dressed, to the point where one had to wonder how long it took to put himself together, or if he had a team? Perhaps? An artful bloody nose completed the picture, and seemed to be the extent of the damage. His long fingered right hand was holding his left shoulder, rotating the joint to assess his injuries.

Oh, sod him, look at her bike! It had been new for her last birthday.

“OY!” she shouted, advancing on the perpetrator. “Just what - what happened! What did you do? How could you possibly have been driving fast enough to accomplish this in a CAR PARK.” She was becoming rather shrill.

Wincing slightly, he simply stared at her, squinting. Just as she was about to demand an explanation a very expensive looking black car pulled up as though it had been driving at top speed. One hand still on his shoulder, the pointy blonde pushed himself off the wreck and sauntered toward the black car with deeply tinted windows. The door swung open seemingly of its own accord. Without releasing his shoulder, he ducked his head to seat himself back in the car like a convict in a crime procedural.

Spluttering and somewhat in shock, and now recalling the late hour and her utter lack of transportation, Hermione abandoned the wreck of her bicycle and began sprinting to the nearest tube station.

Still completely out of sorts she burst noisily into the club, unnecessary helmet still buckled under her chin, only to be met with the sight of Lavender and Lavender’s mother taking body shots off a stripper while Ron’s mother stared on in horror.

****

Utterly exhausted and more than a bit queasy after being subjected to Lavender’s sincerest thanks and most detailed plans for the dildos that had been gifted to her ‘With Love from Hermione & Pansy,' Hermione returned home, eager to add Pansy’s stunt to her list of Things Never To Forgive People For, right under “utter destruction of my poor bicycle by the Privileged Platinum Prick.”

Slumping backwards against her door she had barely peeled off her admittedly not-great smelling leggings when a massive thump sounded against her back, knocking her forward to her hands and knees.

Wincing, she hauled herself up to yell at whoever was responsible. Whoever they were, they were giggling and... oh, there were two people, and...Oh. Angrily, Hermione yanked open the door causing the two humans to stumble forward in a rush, upending themselves onto her couch some 10 feet into the apartment.

Undeterred, the couple resumed making out. Vigorously. With a clang a set of keys were tossed onto her coffee table. Did they mean to … stay?

“OY! What the hell do you think you're doing?” Hermione shouted while stalking towards them, brandishing the nearest available weapon - her left wellie.

Seemingly unperturbed, the man turned slowly to look up at her before drawling, “Now, I’m starting to wonder if that’s all you ever say.” 

With a gasp, Hermione realized who exactly it was on her couch, with his hands up a girl’s dress. Poncy. Blonde. Git.

Noticing another presence at long last, the girl squinted up at the human shape coalescing before her eyes.

“Draco, why is your maid still here?” the girl slurred, pointing blearily at Hermione.

“I am NOT a maid! I am Hermione. And this is MY apartment!” Hermione shouted, gesturing at the door.

At this revelation, Draco cast a cursory glance around the place and then grimaced theatrically as if remembering something. 

“Hermione," he said slowly, and then again, "Hermione? Oh my god, is that your real name? How does one shorten that? One really should shorten it. Change it, even. Herm - "

She cut him off with a shockingly loud noise of outrage.

“Oh, don’t you dare, ‘Draco,’’’ she yelled, complete with air quotes. “You, you, bike murderer. I recognize you! You…you’re unbelievable!”

“Unbelievable? Are you 85? Next you’ll be hitting me about the head with a handbag and calling me a scoundrel.”

“I’ll call you worse than that you, you, Jack Whitehall sounding posh…posh-”

“Well now I am offended. I have much better hair, and furthermore…”

The girl, bored with the exchange, began yanking on Draco’s sleeve like a petulant child.

“Come on, Drake, let's gooo. I thought you were taking me back to yours. This place is ghastly,” the girl whined.

On their way out the door, Hermione stood, holding her leggings and staring after the pair in disbelief. 

****

The very next day Hermione ran face first into Draco’s chest turning the corner from the mailboxes.

“OW!” Hermione exclaimed, grabbing her injured nose.

“I have to say, if that’s your attempt to deviate from your standard plebeian greeting, it’s not going well. Elocution needs work. It’s pronounced ‘hel-lo’.” He spoke slowly, dragging out the syllables as if she was a child.

Realizing who he was, Hermione was instantly put off the apology she had nearly automatically uttered.

“Oh. OH. Oh, it’s YOU. Of course it’s you.”

“Eloquent, as always. You act like you’re not happy to see me…” he trailed off, bending down to pick up a piece of mail that she had dropped in the collision. “…Granger. Granger? Your name is Hermione Granger?” Draco mocked, deliberately exaggerating the nasal vowels in her name. “Just when I thought it couldn’t possibly get any better.”

“Oh, do shut up, you,” she paused, “you utter…”

“Please don’t attempt to craft anymore clever names for me, Granger, you’ve no talent for it.”

She stared at him open mouthed, wondering how he could turn absolutely every interaction into an opportunity to insult her. Did he practice this argumentative behaviour? It was abhorrent, and she loathed him, but she very nearly had to admire how very good he was at making her hate him.

“I’m late and I don’t have time to be wasting with arseholes like you,” Hermione huffed, whipping him in the chest with the mail she pulled from his hands.

“You’re really rather violent, Granger, did you know? Hitting is not an acceptable alternative for when your mouth disconnects from your brain.” Draco drawled as he started walking away.

Were her weaknesses really so obvious? Hermione wondered to herself, her eyes following his lanky form sauntering down the hallway. He seemed to always find exactly the right nerve to press every time they saw each other. Hermione had always prided herself on her wit, but it was true that when faced with someone she’d very much like to insult, she tended to get tongue-tied and resorting to hitting them with whatever she was holding. She really was clever, she assured herself. Well, she was.

****

Three weeks later, Hermione tripped over a pair of legs on her way down the hall to her apartment. Her initial concern faded immediately and was replaced with disbelief when she realized those legs belonged to Draco (but Draco ‘what’? she wondered, briefly).

She kicked him sharply with the pointed toe of her flats.

He stirred awake, looking up her body slowly from her toes to the top of her head. She stood in silence, curiously looking at him looking at her. In the dim light of the sconce outside her door half his face was obscured, and she marvelled at how different each side of his face looked. The shadowed side was sharp, angry, cast in relief. The lit side was soft. He briefly didn’t look as awful as he always seemed to act.

“I don’t recall it being that windy out,” he spoke finally, startling her.

“What? It’s not windy. What are you talking about?”

“It must have been, Granger.” His voice took on an edge as he leaned forward. “You can’t have done that to your hair on purpose.” He smiled broadly at her, as though he was satisfied with his performance. She wondered briefly if that’s what it was. He seemed more embarrassed than angry. Suddenly, processing what he’d just said, Hermione became irate.

“You can’t be serious! You’re lying on the floor. How can you possibly think you are in a position to be condescending?”

“It’s a natural consequence of my birth, Granger.” He tossed the line casually as he stood, towering over her. “Sitting or standing, and regardless of the surface. The Malfoys reject all but the best.”

“Malfoy?”

A look passed over his face so quickly she nearly missed it. He schooled his features nearly as fast.

“The real question is,” he quickly cut her off, changing the subject. “Why are you outside of my apartment, Granger?”

“You’re on MY floor, Malfoy.” Hermione spoke his surname clearly. At that he winced, drawing back. Looking around, the embarrassed flush came back into his face. It was only then that she noticed he was rather drunk. He barely showed it, but he swayed ever so slightly as he stood. If she’d doubted her prognosis, the liquor on his breath when he was suddenly inches away from her would have confirmed it.

Draco leaned down, staring into her eyes, opening his mouth to say something. Then, suddenly thinking better of it, he straightened up and strode quickly away down the hall and up the stairs. She saw him clutch briefly at the railing on the way, but nothing else betrayed him.

****

She didn’t see him again for nearly a month. He was always just heading out the door or around the corner. He seemed to be avoiding her.

Out for wine with Pansy, she brought up what had been puzzling her since that night.

“Pans, have you ever heard the name ‘Malfoy’ it sounds fam-”

Her question was rudely interrupted by a suddenly spluttering Pansy, struggling to contain her mouthful of riesling.

“Hermione, did you meet someone with that name or -- who told it to you?” Pansy gripped Hermione’s arm tightly.

“Are you upset? Or…”

“No! No, I am not upset. I’m excited. Shall I assume you know the same amount of nothing as usual about the London socialite scene?”

“London socialites? Oh, god, what are you talking about? No, I know nothing about that.”

“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ok. Ok. So, the Malfoys are this filthy rich old family, right? They’re originally French, so sometimes you don’t hear about them in the same breath as Britain’s more obvious celebrities, but they’re … well, they’re infamous really. There are a lot of really dodgy stories about their allegiances during the Second World War, and where all that money came from. Anyway, so I said filthy and I said rich. Well, I meant both literally.”

Hermione was listening with rapt attention. So there was a reason that Draco, if that was his real name, reacted so strongly to that slip up.

“So, recently, Draco,” Pansy continued, “the heir to the Malfoy family fortune was publicly disowned when he decided not to follow orders and join the Malfoy family practice.”

“Which is what.”

“Only the oldest and most influential law firm in Britain, Voldemort & Malfoy.”

“You’ve got to be joking. They sound like cartoon villains.”

“They nearly are, Hermione. Apart from dodgy war records, they’ve represented nearly every criminally inclined bastard in every de souche aristocratic family in Europe.

“Don’t you remember some of the more high profile trials? Like when we were kids and that famous actor, Lockhart, was stealing small writers’ stories and date raping his fans? Malfoy Sr. was the defense. He slut-shamed the girls and buried the authors in years of lawyers and defamation suits until they ran out of funds to continue with litigation. Or all of those racist emails they found exchanged by those Ministers in Parliament, Fudge and Umbridge, and all those discrimination suits brought against them? Malfoy quashed every single one. Played the defendants against each other so they settled for criminally low sums."

“So, what about Draco? He’s a lawyer?”

“He was articling under the senior partner, Voldemort,” Hermione rolled her eyes at the name as Pansy kept talking, “who had really taken Draco under his wing. Everyone was thinking Malfoy Sr. would retire and Draco would continue on with the Malfoy name at the firm. He’s the last with that name.”

Hermione seethed internally at the patriarchy.

“No sisters either, Herm.”

“Oh hush, that wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“It was too.”

“Fine! It’s just a really oppressive system…” she trailed off, knowing she was preaching to the choir.

“As I was saying, Draco just dropped off the scene out of nowhere at the end of last summer when he was supposed to try this huge case on behalf of the senior partner. But he bailed, and some other slimy defense lawyer from the firm stepped in at the last minute. No one’s heard anything about him since. Apparently Draco’s defection has created problems for Malfoy Sr. at the firm, on top of everything.”

“Oh my god. Pansy....”

“What? Yes! Tell me, what. Where did you hear that name.”

“Back in early fall, Lavender’s hen-do…the wanker that mashed my bike, was this tall, blonde, rich, like I’m talking posh guy, Pansy. I ran into him again a bit later, he was making out with this girl on my couch…” Hermione’s voice faded off sounding suddenly a bit sad.

As she had listened to Pansy she had experienced several conflicting emotions. At first he revolted her with the type of work he seemed to be implicated in, the sort of people he represented. Now it seemed like everything had been stacked against him since he was born.

“AND? Hermione you cannot stop there.”

“I don’t know, there’s not much else really…”

“The way you’re talking doesn’t sound like there’s nothing else.”

“I’ve just, you know, run into him a few times in my building. He lives on the floor above me. He was really drunk the last time I saw him. Actually, he was laying on the floor outside of my apartment.”

“You’re kidding. That’s insane. Hermione…” Pansy looked scheming.

“No!” She yelled suddenly. Pansy looked briefly shocked. “No,” she continued. “You can’t tell anyone I told you. Maybe getting away from Malfoy Sr. and the senior partner would be a good thing.”

“You’re absolutely no fun, did you know you that, Herm?”

—

Later that night, Hermione was sitting at home in a bit of a wine haze, thinking about all she’d learned from Pansy about the no-longer mysterious, posh, blonde arsehole that was living in her building, when scuffling noises in her hallway brought her sprinting to her door. She refused to admit that she was intrigued by the seemingly loathsome prick, but the wine had somewhat dulled her ability to lie to herself. She heard nothing when she pressed her ear to the door, so she opened it -- just a crack, but an enormous weight pushed her down as soon as she turned the knob.

Sprawled backwards on her front mat, Hermione groaned and reached up to her head. She was covered, and then some, by a very long person. Briefly she felt a spasm of panic until the person pushed themselves back on their hands and knees above her and the now very familiar blonde head of hair came into view.

“We have got to stop meeting like this,” Draco slurred. He was wasted.

“Malfoy, get OFF.” She shoved at his chest and he sighed, rolling onto his side, and lying down next to her. Okay, that was not what she meant.

Intending to correct his mistaken assumption that ‘get off’ meant ‘lay down’, Hermione turned to face him, only to collide directly with his face, his mouth, in fact, if she were to be more specific. Quicker than she had thought him able, his hand came around to hold the back of her head. His fingers spanned the whole back of her skull and she leaned in briefly, enjoying the feel of him pushing his hand up through her hair as he held her to his mouth. Suddenly remembering the girl she’d seen him with a few months ago, Hermione reared back and thumped him hard with her fist in the center of his chest.

He coughed. “Okay, you need to stop doing that,” he groaned, rubbing his sternum.

“You are horrible!” He looked briefly hurt, and then all too quickly that vulnerable expression was replaced with a leering one.

“Actually, if you’d just shut your mouth for once, you’d find I’m actually quite good.”

“Oh, no. No!” She shoved him hard and scrambled backwards, standing up quicker than her wine buzz thought she should have. “First of all, you do not speak to me that way. Where do you get off telling me to shut up? I know your upper crust, Nazi throwback of a social circle must let you think you can get away with murder but I will not be talked down to by a socialite with a drinking problem.” She was breathing heavily, feeling rather self-righteous, finally having delivered the exact type of dressing down she had always wanted to give, and thought he had roundly deserved. She had not expected a creeping nausea to invade her stomach. He held her gaze in silence for a few moments before he looked down and away.

“I thought you knew and maybe didn’t care. After you found out my name, I waited for the press to descend. When nothing happened, I thought....” He cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that answers that.”

Hermione was clinging valiantly to the memories of her hurt feelings from all of their abrasive encounters. “You have a girlfriend.” She returned back to her original motive for hitting him.

“Who? Tori?” He squinted at her, and then shook his head. “She’s not my girlfriend. She had her eye on my future fortune.” He sighed, slowly standing up. “At first she thought my abdication and disappearing act was a bit of PR genius. All press is good press. You know the type.”

Hermione nodded once, not believing the sudden candor.

He continued. “Once she realized I had no intention of going back ‘bigger and better than ever’ she quickly found other prospects.”

Hermione stared at him, determined not to allow the smallest sliver of her damnable compassion through. He didn’t deserve her pity. She gathered the tiny ball of righteous rage that she had left.

“I don’t know if you expect me to feel sorry for you, but you made your choices, didn’t you? And you’ve certainly chosen to be a right bastard to me every time we’ve met. You can’t keep hiding and not making a clear decision. Stumbling around drunk, insulting me, kissing me and telling me a sob story is hardly the road to redemption.”

He stared at her briefly, and then nodded once. “Right. Yes. Choices. Decisions. How could I forget.” He turned on his heel and left.

—-

The next morning she awoke to vigorous banging. Muttering to herself, she stomped to the door and flung it open.

“WHAT.” She yelled directly into - nothing. A heavily perfumed blur blew into her apartment. It was Pansy, shaking her phone in Hermione’s face.

“Did you see. Did you see?!” Pansy screeched.

Hermione yanked the phone out of her face to see what was being shown to her. Moments passed as she scrolled through the news article on the screen, her jaw slowly dropping open as she read. The words blurred past. Malfoy heir, alleged abuse, the end for a centuries old law firm, choices…

_‘I realized I had to make a clear choice’, said the heir to the Malfoy fortune, Draco Malfoy, at a press conference earlier this morning. The scion of the ancient Malfoy family has come forward with damning allegations of malpractice against the senior partners in the very law firm that employed his father, Lucius Malfoy. Multiple allegations of jury tampering, extortion, bribery, and conflicts of interest will be heard over the coming months, implicating high-ranking members of parliament as well as many of the heads of Britain’s oldest families…_

Hermione looked up at Pansy and just stared.

—-

Months passed without hearing from Draco at all. Hermione settled into a groove with her research largely ignoring the outside world, with one notable exception. She followed the stories about Draco in the news. She couldn’t help but wonder about him. She’d never had anything but supportive and loving parents that encouraged her every pursuit. She couldn’t imagine having been groomed by powerful influences, with so much to lose if she stepped a toe out of line.

He was still a right prick at times, though.

Late on Valentine’s Day, Hermione was rushing down the stairs and out the front door of her building when she was knocked flat on her arse by the door swinging suddenly inwards.

“OY!” She shouted, her eyes falling on the perpetrator: a tall, lanky, rather pointy blonde man, staring down sheepishly at her and holding a bicycle. Hermione squinted at him, trying and failing to glare angrily. The corner of Draco’s mouth quirked up but he was otherwise perfectly deadpan.

“Granger.”

“Malfoy.”


End file.
